Child 44

by Tom Rob Smith

  Nesterov moved closer to the suspect:

  —When I found Larisa’s hair in your book, why did you think you’d be in trouble? Tell this man what you told me.

  —She never liked me, she kept telling me to go away, but I wanted her hair. I wanted it so bad. And when I cut her hair she didn’t say anything at all.

  Nesterov turned to Leo, offering the questioning to him.

  —Do you have any questions?

  What was expected of him? Leo thought for a moment before asking:

  —Why did you stuff her mouth with soil?

  Varlam didn’t answer immediately. He seemed confused:

  —Yes, there was something in her mouth. I remember that now. Don’t hit me.

  Nesterov answered:

  —No one is going to hit you, answer the question.

  —I don’t know. I forget things. There was dirt in her mouth, yes.

  Leo continued:

  —Explain what happened when you killed her.

  —I cut her.

  —You cut her or you cut her hair?

  —I’m sorry, I cut her.

  —Listen to me carefully. Did you cut her body or did you cut her hair?

  —I found her and I cut her. I should have said to somebody but I was worried. I didn’t want to get in trouble.

  Varlam began to cry:

  —I’m in so much trouble. I’m sorry. I just wanted her hair.

  Nesterov stepped forward:

  —That’s enough for the moment.

  With those words of reassurance Varlam stopped crying. He was calm again. It was impossible to tell from his face that this was a man in the frame for murder.

  Leo and Nesterov stepped outside in the corridor. Nesterov shut the door to the cell:

  —We have evidence that he was at the crime scene. Snow prints match his boots exactly. You understand that he’s from the internat? He’s a simpleton.

  Leo now understood Nesterov’s bravery in addressing this murder head-on. They had a suspect who suffered from a mental disorder. Varlam was outside of Soviet society, outside of Communism, politics—he was explainable. His actions didn’t reflect on the Party, they didn’t alter the truism about crime because the suspect was not a real Soviet. He was an anomaly. Nesterov added:

  —That shouldn’t lull you into thinking he’s incapable of violence. He’s admitted killing her. He has a motive, an irrational one, but a motive. He wanted something he couldn’t have—her blonde hair. He has a history of committing crimes when he can’t get what he wants: theft, kidnapping. Now he’s turned to murder. To him killing Larisa was no different from stealing a baby. His morality is undeveloped. It’s sad. He should have been locked up a long time ago. This is a matter for the sledovatyel now.

  Leo understood. The investigation was over. This young man was going to die.

  SAME DAY

  THE BEDROOM WAS EMPTY. Leo dropped to his knees, putting his head to the floorboards. Her case was missing. He stood up, ran out of the room, down the stairs and into the restaurant kitchen. Basarov was cutting fatty strips off an unidentifiable joint of yellow meat:

  —Where’s my wife?

  —Pay for the bottle and I’ll tell you.

  He pointed to an empty bottle—the bottle of cheap vodka Leo had finished in the early hours of this morning—adding:

  —I don’t care if it was you or your wife who drank it.

  —Please, just tell me where she is.

  —Pay for the bottle.

  Leo didn’t have any money. He was still wearing his militia uniform. He’d left everything in the locker room:

  —I’ll pay you later. However much you want.

  —Later, sure, later you’ll pay me a million rubles.

  Basarov continued cutting the meat, signaling his refusal to budge.

  Leo ran back upstairs, rifling through his case, throwing everything out. In the back of The Book of Propagandists he had twenty-five-ruble notes, four of them, an emergency stash. He got to his feet, ran out the room, back down the stairs to the restaurant, pushing one of the notes into the man’s hand, considerably more than a single bottle was worth:

  —Where is she?

  —She left a couple of hours ago. She was carrying her case.

  —Where was she going?

  —She didn’t speak to me. I didn’t speak to her.

  —How long ago, exactly how long ago?

  —Two or three hours . . .

  Three hours—that meant she was gone, not just out of the restaurant but quite possibly out of the town. Leo couldn’t guess where she might be heading or which direction she’d be traveling.

  Feeling generous after his substantial reward, Basarov volunteered a little extra information:

  —It’s unlikely she made it in time for the late afternoon train. As far as I remember there isn’t another train till right about now.

  —What time?

  —Seven-thirty . . .

  Leo had ten minutes.

  Ignoring his tiredness he ran as fast as he could. But desperation choked him. Short of breath, he had only the roughest idea where the station was. He was running blindly, trying to recall the route the car had driven. His uniform was soaked with spray from the icy slush on the street, the cheap material getting heavier and heavier. His blisters rubbed and burst, his toes were bleeding again—his shoes filling with blood. Each step sent a searing pain through his legs.

  He turned the corner only to be confronted by a dead end—a line of wooden houses. He was lost. It was too late. His wife was gone; there was nothing he could do. Hunched over, trying to catch his breath, he remembered these ramshackle timber houses, the stench of human effluent. He was close to the station; he was sure of it. Rather than retrace his steps he ran forward, entering the back of one of the huts, stepping into a family seated on the floor, in the middle of a meal. Huddled around a stove, they stared up at him, silent, afraid at the sight of his uniform. Without saying a word he stepped over the children and ran out, entering onto the main street; the street they’d driven down on their arrival. The station was within sight. He tried to run faster but he was slowing. Adrenaline could no longer compensate for exhaustion. He had nothing in reserve.

  He barged into the station doors, knocking them open with his shoulder. The clock showed it was seven forty-five. He was fifteen minutes too late. The realization that she was gone, probably forever, began to crash across his mind. Leo clung to the groundless hope that somehow she’d be on the platform, somehow she hadn’t gotten on the train. He stepped out, looking right and left. He couldn’t see his wife, he couldn’t see the train. He felt weak. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, sweat running down the side of his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man sitting on a bench. Why would a man still be on the platform? Was he waiting for a train? Leo straightened up.

  Raisa was at the far end of the platform, hidden in the gloom. It took an enormous effort not to run and grab her hands. Catching his breath, he was trying to think of what to say. He glanced at himself—he was a mess, sweating, filthy. But she wasn’t even looking at him: she was looking over his shoulder. Leo turned around. Thick bursts of smoke were rising over the treetops. The delayed train was approaching.

  Leo had imagined taking time over his apology, finding the correct words, being eloquent. However, that plan was shot. Right now he had a matter of seconds to convince her. His words stumbled out:

  —I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I grabbed you but that wasn’t me—or it wasn’t the person I want to be.

  Hopeless—he had to do better. Slow down, concentrate—he’d get one shot at this:

  —Raisa, you want to leave me. You’re right to want to leave me. I could tell you how difficult it would be on your own. How you might get stopped, questioned, arrested. How you don’t have the right paperwork. You’d be a vagrant. But that’s not a reason to stay with me. I know that you’d rather take your chances.

  —Paperwork can be faked, Leo. I’d
rather fake that than this marriage.

  There it was. The marriage was a sham. All Leo’s words dried up. The train came to a halt alongside them. Raisa’s face was impassive. Leo stepped out of her way. She moved toward the carriage. Could he let her go? Over the sound of grinding brakes he raised his voice:

  —The reason I didn’t denounce you wasn’t because I believed you were pregnant and it had nothing to do with me being a good person. I did it because my family is the only part of my life that I’m not ashamed of.

  To Leo’s surprise Raisa turned around:

  —Where does it come from, this overnight enlightenment? It feels cheap. Having been stripped of your uniform, your office, your power, you now have to make do with me. Is that it? Something which was never very important to you before—us—becomes important because you find yourself with nothing else?

  —You don’t love me, I know that. But there was a reason we got married, there was something between us, some connection. We’ve lost that. I’ve lost that. We can find it again.

  Carriage doors were opening, a handful of passengers were disembarking. Time was running out. Raisa looked at the carriage, weighing up her choices. They were pitiful. She had no friends to run to, no family who could shelter her, no money and no means of supporting herself. She didn’t even have a ticket. Leo was right in his analysis. If she left, she’d probably get picked up by the authorities. She was exhausted at the thought of it. She looked at her husband. They had nothing except each other, whether they liked each other or not.

  She put down her case. Leo smiled, obviously believing them to be reconciled. Annoyed with this idiotic interpretation, she raised her hand, cutting short his smile:

  —I married you because I was scared, scared that if I rejected your advances I’d be arrested, maybe not immediately but at some point, on some pretext. I was young, Leo, and you were powerful. That is the reason we got married. That story you tell about me pretending that my name was Lena? You find that story funny, romantic? I gave you a false name because I was worried you’d track me down. What you took for seduction, I took for surveillance. Our relationship was built out of fear. Maybe not from your point of view—you have no reason to fear me, what power did I have? What power have I ever had? You asked me to marry you and I acquiesced because that’s what people do. They put up with things; they tolerate in order to survive. You never hit me or shouted at me, you were never drunk. So, on balance, I reckoned that I was luckier than most. When you grabbed my neck, Leo, you removed the only reason I had for staying with you.

  The train pulled out. Leo watched it go, trying to digest what she’d said. But she gave him no pause, speaking as though these words had been forming in her head over many years. Now, tapped, they were flowing freely:

  —The problem with becoming powerless, as you are now, is that people start telling you the truth. You’re not used to it, you’ve lived in a world protected by the fear you inspire. But if we’re going to stay together, let’s cut the deluded romanticism. Circumstance is the glue between us. I have you. You have me. We don’t have very much else. And if we’re going to stay together, from now on I tell you the truth, no comfortable lies—we’re equal as we have never been equal before. You can take it or I can wait for the next train.

  Leo had no reply. He was unprepared, outgunned, outspoken. In the past he’d used his position to get better accommodation, better food. He hadn’t imagined he’d used it to get a wife too. Her voice softened a little:

  —There are so many things to be afraid of. You can’t be one of them.

  —I never will again.

  —I’m cold, Leo. I’ve been standing on this platform for three hours. I’m going back to our room. Are you coming?

  No, he didn’t feel like walking back, side by side, a chasm between them.

  —I’m going to stay here for a bit. I’ll see you back there.

  Carrying her case, Raisa returned to the station building. Leo sat on the bench, staring into the forest. He shuffled through the memories of their relationship, reexamining each one, adjusting his understanding, rewriting his past.

  He’d been sitting there for he didn’t know how long when he became aware of someone standing to his side. He looked up. It was the man from the ticket office, a youngish man, the man they’d met on their arrival:

  —Sir, there are no more trains tonight.

  —Do you have a cigarette?

  —I don’t smoke. I could get you one from our apartment. It’s just upstairs.

  —No, that’s okay. Thank you anyway.

  —I’m Aleksandr.

  —Leo. Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?

  —Not at all, let me get you that cigarette.

  Before Leo could answer, the young man had hurried off.

  Leo sat back and waited. He saw a wooden hut set back from the tracks. That was the place where the girl’s body had been found. He could make out the edge of the forest, the crime scene—snow trampled down by detectives, photographers, investigative lawyers—all studying that dead girl, her mouth open, stuffed with soil.

  Struck by a thought, Leo stood up, hurried forward, lowering himself off the platform, crossing the tracks and heading toward the trees. Behind him a voice called out:

  —What are you doing?

  He turned around and saw Aleksandr standing on the edge of the platform, holding a cigarette. He gestured for him to follow.

  Leo reached the area where the snow had been trodden down. There were crisscrossing boot tracks in all directions. He entered the forest, walking for a couple of minutes, arriving at roughly the area where he supposed the body must have lain. He crouched down. Aleksandr caught up with him. Leo looked up:

  —You know what happened here?

  —I was the one who saw Ilinaya running to the station. She was badly beaten up, shaking—she couldn’t speak for a while. I called the militia.

  —Ilinaya?

  —She found the body, stumbled across it. Her and the man she was with.

  The couple in the forest—Leo had known there was something wrong.

  —Why was she beaten up?

  Aleksandr looked nervous:

  —She’s a prostitute. The man she was with that night is an important Party official. Please, don’t ask me any more.

  Leo understood. This official wanted his name kept out of all the paperwork. But could he be a suspect in the murder of the young girl? Leo nodded at the young man, trying to reassure him:

  —I won’t mention you, I promise.

  His hand pushed through the thin sheet of snow.

  —The girl’s mouth was filled with soil, loose soil. Imagine I was struggling with you, right here, and I reached out to grab something to stuff into your mouth because I’m afraid you’re going to scream, I’m afraid someone’s going to hear you.

  Leo’s fingers hit the ground. It was hard, like the surface of a stone. He tried another place, then another and another. There was no loose soil. The ground was frozen solid.

  18 MARCH

  STANDING OUTSIDE HOSPITAL 379, Leo reread the autopsy report, the main points of which he’d copied longhand from the original

  Multiple stab wounds

  Blade indeterminate length

  Extensive damage to the torso and internal organs

  Raped either before or after death

  Mouth was full of soil but she did not suffocate, her nasal passage was clear. The soil was for some other purpose—to silence her?

  Leo had circled the last point. Since the ground was frozen the killer must have brought the soil with him. He must have planned the murder. There was intention, preparation. But why bring soil at all? It was a cumbersome means to silence someone; a rag, a cloth, or even a hand would have been far easier. With no answers Leo had decided to belatedly take Fyodor’s advice. He was going to see the body for himself.

  When he’d asked where her body was being kept he’d been told to go to Hospital 379. He hadn’t expected forensic labo
ratories, pathologists, or a dedicated morgue. He knew there was no specialized apparatus for dealing with wrongful death. How could there be when there was no wrongful death? In the hospital the militia were forced to canvass for a doctor’s spare moment, such as a meal break or ten minutes before surgery. These doctors, with no training beyond their own medical qualifications, would take an educated guess at what might have happened to the victim. The autopsy report Leo had read was based on notes taken during one of these snatched sessions. The notes would have been typed up several days later by a different person altogether. There could be little doubt that much of the truth had been lost along the way.

  Hospital 379 was one of the most famous in the country and reportedly one of the finest free-to-all hospitals in the world. Situated at the end of Chkalova Street, it was spread over several hectares with landscaped grounds stretching into the forest. Leo was impressed. This was no mere propaganda project. Plenty of money had been invested on these facilities and he could understand why dignitaries reportedly traveled many kilometers to recuperate in the picturesque surroundings. He presumed that the lavish funding was primarily intended to ensure that the Volga’s workforce was kept healthy and productive.

  At reception he asked if he could speak to a doctor, explaining that he needed help with the examination of a murder victim, a young girl they had in their morgue. The receptionist seemed uncomfortable with the request, asking if it was urgent and wondering if he couldn’t come back at a less busy time. Leo understood: this man wanted nothing to do with the case:

  —It’s urgent.

  The man reluctantly moved off to see who was available.

  Leo’s fingers tapped against the front desk. He was uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance. His visit was unauthorized, independent. What did he hope to achieve? His job was to find evidence confirming a suspect’s guilt, not question the guilt itself. Though he’d been exiled from the prestigious world of political crime to the dirty secret of conventional crime, the process was much the same. He’d dismissed the death of Fyodor’s little boy as an accident not because of any evidence but because the Party line necessitated a dismissal. He’d made arrests based upon a list of names given to him, names drawn up behind closed doors. That had been his method. Leo wasn’t naïve enough to think that he could change the direction of the investigation. He had no authority. Even if he’d been the top-ranking officer he couldn’t reverse the proceedings. A course had been set, a suspect chosen. It was inevitable that Babinich was going to be found guilty and inevitable that he was going to die. The system didn’t allow for deviation or admissions of fallibility. Apparent efficiency was far more important than the truth.